Of Ravens and Writing Desks
by blood.stained.lies
Summary: Faint music could be heard coming from across the room. Sherlock spun to his left to see his violin floating in mid-air, as though being held up by an invisible musician. The 'Liebestod' from Wagner's Tristan and Isolde flowed with perfect elegance from the instrument. No musician could ever play with that amount of sheer flawlessness, not without the help of something…more...
1. Prologue

**Prologue.**

_**Events have been manipulated to suit the plot line. Post Reichenbach Fall and Final Battle. Sherlock can be considered OOC.**_

_**Disclaimer: Anything recognisable belongs to the appropriate creator(s). The plot line is my own.**_

_**Song: Alice- Avril Lavigne**_

* * *

The doorbell was ringing. And Sherlock wasn't going to answer it.

What would be the point? It would only be another nobody, asking him to solve another case that offered no challenge whatsoever. And if they were anything like the last one, he'd get punched in the face. Again. Despite John's explanation, he still couldn't understand why the woman had slapped him when he told her that he had discovered the truth. She _should_ have been slapping her husband, he was the one cheating on her!

Sherlock Holmes was sat in his chair in 221B Baker Street, with his violin and bow hanging loosely from his pale, long fingers and his eyes closed. It was a cold November morning, therefore he had no need to move unless Lestrade rang with an interesting case for him. Unlikely. He heard John sigh from the kitchen and stomp downstairs in defeat when he realised Sherlock wasn't going to move. He probably believed that the consulting detective had drifted off. Sherlock listened to the front door opening and three voices drifted upstairs. The first and most obvious was John, the second was Mrs. Hudson. The third, however, was unknown to him. A women's voice, young. And from the hushed tones, it did not sound like she was here with a case for him to solve.

Within the next few minutes, two sets of feet were making their way up the stairs. Again, Sherlock could easily discern John's heavy tread, but it was obvious that the second set belonged to the mystery woman and not his landlady. He could hear them discussing his and John's living arrangements. An odd topic of conversation, Sherlock was unsure as to why this woman needed to know about his living habits and how John coped with them. He heard the footsteps come to a stop not that far away. It was probably time for him to open his eyes.

"We have a visitor," Sherlock opened his eyes slowly and John was revealed to him, leaning against the doorframe. The visitor was nowhere Sherlock could see.

John shook his head at his friend's blatant statement. "Yes, Sherlock, and you're going to play nice. She's your new flatmate."

"What, why? Where are you going?" Confusion was written all over Sherlock's face. Yes, John was in a relationship with Mary, and yes, he highly doubted that it would take more than a year for their inevitable engagement. Yet, he could not see why this woman would be taking John's place at this moment in time.

"Well," began John, scratching the back of his head whilst he looked for the right words, "You know that Mary and I are in a relationship… and we decided that we should move in together. Now."

Sherlock looked at John. He supposed that this was the most logical step in John and Mary's relationship. If he was honest with himself, he knew he would miss John but was pleased that his only friend had found someone he could be happy with. Not that he would tell John that.

Sometimes Sherlock found himself wondering if he should ever consider finding a companion. When John would talk of his relationship with Mary, even when he thought Sherlock wasn't paying attention, he wished for a relationship in which he had an equal.

And then he remembered that he had yet to meet a woman who was even close to matching his intellectual prowess.

"Well I suppose that's the next logical step in your relationship. I would say that your room will always be here for you, should you need it, but you seem to be giving it up," Sherlock shrugged and let his violin and bow slip gently from his hands to rest against the side of his chair. The corner of John's lips curled into a smile at his sociopathic friend's attempt to joke. Sherlock stood up slowly, stretching his muscles as he went, "Well then, am I allowed to meet my new flatmate, or are you going to stand in front of the young lady for the rest of the day?"

"How did you – oh never mind, I don't really care right now," John sighed in exasperation, failing to understand how Sherlock knew that his soon-to-be flatmate was a _young_ woman. "Sherlock Holmes, meet…Hermione Granger," John stepped to the side and allowed Sherlock to look through the doorway. What he saw baffled him. Sherlock Holmes was baffled.

The girl who stood before him was nothing out the ordinary. Tall and lean with lightly tanned skin, her light brown hair surrounded her like an out of control halo. If it wasn't for the straight features of her face he would have thought her insane. Or recently electrocuted. What confused Sherlock, was that he simply couldn't read her. Her physique told him nothing, the way she held herself told him nothing. Her crazy hair told him nothing! However, her eyes…her eyes told him what he would soon come to wish he'd never learned. There was a wisdom in those brown orbs that spoke of pain, fear and a horror long past. Yet that terror had left its mark, a mark that she would forever bear. Forced to grow up before her time, there was mistrust and unnatural age in the eyes of the woman before him.

"Hello," her voice rang clear through the room, a slight lilt to it that was pleasing to the ear.

"And to you. So, how did John find you, Miss. Granger? Friend of Mary's?" Sherlock questioned, trying to pin her down. His inability to work her out was starting to unnerve him.

"Did Uncle John not tell you?" A look of confusion crossed Hermione's face.

_Uncle John?_ Sherlock turned to face the doctor, "Your sister's a lesbian," he stated in an accusatory manner, as though the doctor had purposefully lied to him.

"She is, Sherlock," John chuckled to himself, he was constantly amused by his friend's complete lack of social skills, "I have a half-brother and Hermione is his daughter. Ergo, Uncle John," the ex-army doctor motioned to himself.

Sherlock nodded in understanding, looking back to Hermione. She was currently browsing the bookcase by the fire, her eyes narrowing as she sorted through which she had read. There was still one question in particular that Sherlock needed answering before he would agree to John's proposal, "Why do you want to move in here, Miss. Granger?"

The woman froze with her back to him, staring into the fire. She slowly turned to look at Sherlock, an unreadable gleam in her eye, "First I have a question for you, if that's alright, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock inclined his head as a gesture of consent, "By all means."

Hermione hesitated, her eyes flicking to her uncle. He raised his eyebrows and folded his arms, leaving the decision up to her. She knew better about this sort of thing. She took a deep breath, her gaze flicking back to the young investigator before her, "Do you believe in magic, Holmes?"

* * *

_***…Of Ravens and Writing Desks…***_

John and Hermione were in the kitchen, the latter leaning against the worktop whilst watching her uncle who sat at the table, holding his head in his hands.

"We shouldn't have told him."

"Yes, Uncle, we should have," John turned around to face his niece as she spoke, seeing the righteous determination in her face.

He sighed, feeling defeated, "You're right, as usual. But, Hermione, I know he won't accept it."

"I can make him," the determined expression on Hermione's face seemed to set itself firmly in place as she pushed off the work surface and walked back into the living room. She found her uncle's strange detective friend standing with his back to her, staring out the window. She knew what he was going through, learning there was a whole new world out there was scary enough for an eleven year old. Imagine having your entire outlook on life spun around when you're almost thirty!

"Look, Holmes, I know the idea of magic seems entirely impossible but-" Hermione was suddenly cut off by an unexpected answer from the lithe man before her.

"Magic is entirely possible, however the kind you speak of does not come across as entirely probable," Sherlock kept his back to her, continuing to gaze out the window and to the street below.

"Well, anyway, I've come to the realisation that haven't actually shown you any proof that magic exists," Sherlock did not acknowledged what she was now saying, but Hermione knew he was listening, "Would you like me to prove it?"

A moment later, her uncle's friend slowly moved to face her, one eyebrow arched in scepticism, "Go ahead, I'm certain I'll already be aware of whichever parlour trick you have chosen to perform."

A small smirk graced Hermione's lips, twisting her features into a wry expression. John had come to stand in the door of the kitchen, eager to see his niece perform magic and curious to see his friend's face when she turned his world on end. All of a sudden, faint music could be heard coming from across the room. Sherlock spun to his left to see his violin floating in mid-air, as though being held up by an invisible musician. The 'Liebestod' from Wagner's _Tristan and Isolde_ flowed with perfect elegance from the instrument. No musician could ever play with that amount of sheer flawlessness, not without the help of something…more. Sherlock stared, dumbfounded, between his violin and this… enigmatic woman. Or witch, he supposed was the proper term.

"I believe you," he breathed softly, and he meant it, "What I don't get is why you are telling me?"

"Well that's the part you didn't let her explain before you freaked out," John huffed in annoyance.

"I did not freak out John," Sherlock's face grew dark in irritation. Hermione sensed her uncle gearing up to retort.

"Alright, look, you both freaked out when you found out magic existed," Hermione's brow furrowed in impatience at their childish ways, "Now will you please shut it, so that I can finish saying what needs to be said?" The look on her face cut both men off out of fear of what she could do to them.

Having finished her rant Hermione turned to face her new flatmate, "Holmes, you may want to sit down for this bit."

"I can assure you, _Granger_, that from what I've just seen, I'm sure I can handle whatever it is you have to tell me."

"Fine then."

"Hermione," John warned her, "Easy now."

"No Uncle," Hermione fixed the man to her right with fierce glare, "Not only is it the right thing to do, it's his right to know. Can you imagine what it would be like to have a gift that you cannot truly understand? Because I do," the young woman turned to face Sherlock again, "You have magic."

"…Oh," Sherlock stared at her again, perplexed by the woman before him, "How – how do you know that?"

Hermione opened her mouth to explain, but before she could, Sherlock's phone began to ring. He just continued to stare at the young witch, awaiting an explanation.

"Sherlock, I think you should get that," John broke the silence, hoping the man across from him hadn't gone catatonic.

Sherlock blinked rapidly a few times before his brain was able to control himself again, "Yes I probably should John," he grabbed his phone from his pocket and answered it, "Holmes."

The detective spun around to look out the window again as he listened to the voice on the other end of the line. Hermione turned to look at her uncle who simply shrugged his shoulders and mouthed, "Work," at her.

Sherlock muttered, "I'll be there," into the phone before he ended the call and strode across the room to retrieve his coat and scarf.

"Was it Lestrade?" asked John.

"Yes, apparently there's been some bloody tea party in a warehouse on the docks and he's completely out of his depth…as usual."

"Do you want us to come?" John asked, despite the confusion written all over his face. What he really wanted to know was what on earth Lestrade had said to Sherlock. _Bloody tea party?!_

Sherlock stopped to look at his companions, staring, incredulously, at his newest one the longest, "No I think I shall go alone this time. I need some space," and with that, Sherlock turned on his heel and set off down the stairs and out the door.

John slowly turned to face his brother's daughter, his eyebrows raised in an almost comical expression, "Well…that went rather well, didn't it? I thought so."

Hermione shot her uncle a scathing look, "Really, Uncle? Really?"


	2. Is It Just Madness Keeping Us Afloat?

**Is It Just Madness Keeping Us Afloat?**

_**Disclaimer: Anything recognisable belongs to the appropriate creator(s). The plot line is my own.**_

_**Song: Madness-Muse**_

* * *

Sherlock sat in the back of the taxi, watching the busy, _normal_, life of London pass by as his head span. If he thought about it logically, magic made sense. There were so many unexplained phenomenon in the world that seemed to happen by… well, magic. It really did answer so many questions.

But this woman was telling him _he_ had magic! Sherlock felt pretty sure that if he had magic, he would have known about it by now. He was 29, for fuck's sake! Honestly, what qualified this complete stranger to just walk into his flat, decide to take John's place there and then tell him he was a fucking wizard?!

_Lestrade better have a challenge for me,_ mused Sherlock, the surprises of earlier darkening his mood. He knew that in the shit load of crazy that was just dumped on him, he needed a good distraction. And a nice, interesting case with a psychotic murderer was the way forward.

* * *

_***…Of Ravens and Writing Desks…***_

John watched as his niece wandered around his bedroom. Technically, it was hers now. It was strange to see her after so long.

"Oh yes, I've been meaning to ask you. Did you get a read on Sherlock?"

Hermione kept her back to the man in the doorway but cracked a smile at his questioning, "If you're asking if he's gay, Uncle, he's not. If he was, either all his shirt buttons would be done up or he'd have more open."

John slowly nodded his head as he tried to understand her logic. Still, if her frame of mind was anything like Sherlock's –and he knew for a fact it was exactly the same- then he would take her answer without any doubt.

"Anyway, how d'you like it?" he queried, looking for some form of expression on her face. Hermione thought he didn't notice but he had. She was not the same smiling girl he had known. She could no longer smile and any attempt to do so resulted in a grimace or some weak substitute. It had been 11 years and there was no longer any sign of the laughing child that he once knew.

"It's nice Uncle," Hermione turned to face her the ex-army doctor after she had perused the small space, "I don't have much stuff and, trust me, I've slept in far worse conditions," a faint, reminiscent half-smile made its way onto her lips but was quickly replaced with a frown. She didn't want to remember those days. Those days were gone and to dwell on them was too much for her.

The young witch shook her head to remove the memories of a time best forgotten and pulled her mouth into a small smile to show Uncle John that she was alright. Or, at least, as alright as she could be.

John looked unconvinced by this but decided to change the subject. Even though she was family, he still feared what she might do to him if he upset her. He didn't really fancy himself as a frog… "How's my brother and your mother doing? I haven't spoken to them in a while."

John watched with curiosity as his niece's eyes clouded over with guilt but her jaw clenched in stubbornness, "I don't know Uncle, I haven't spoken to them in a while. They're still angry with me."

"Hermione I don't think they're still angry with you, it was 7 years ago," John looked down at the woman in front of him with sympathy in his blue eyes.

"They have every right to be though. Uncle, I took away their memories and sent them packing to Australia! They can't truly forgive me and I understand that, but I just wish that they could see it my way," frustration replaced the guilt in the witch's hazel orbs, "I was protecting them! If I hadn't, Riddle would have found them and who knows what would have happened! I saw what happened to those who opposed him! I felt it! I saw men, women and children being tortured and butchered for his pleasure, and could do nothing to stop it! If there was any chance I could save my family then I would take it! He most likely would have let his fucking insane lieutenant torture them until they were brain-dead, then killed them and sent me their fucking heads! I wasn't going to let them be lambs at the slaughter!"

Hermione was breathing hard now, her mask gone and her pain bare to any who would dare to look. John slowly walked over to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. He didn't know what his niece had been through and no matter how much he wanted to, the pain in her eyes told him to wait. Wait for her to reveal the story behind her words. He felt the witch's shoulders shake with silent sobs and started to hush her.

Suddenly, Hermione stood up straight, causing her uncle's arm to fall from its place. Her eyes were dry as she quietly told him, "I'm not crying Uncle. I haven't cried in 7 years and I'm not going to start now," her voice was strong as she pulled her mask back on. The face in front of him was once again blank, as though what had just occurred never did. She walked away from him, heading out the door. Before she left, she placed a hand on the doorframe and turned her head back to look him in eye, "Besides, I don't think I could even if I wanted to."

* * *

_***…Of Ravens and Writing Desks…***_

From the moment Sherlock stepped out of the taxi, he knew something was wrong with the scene in front of him. The air was still, but not _stale_ as it should be on the water-front. He slowly walked towards the warehouse, taking in his surroundings in case he needed to map them later. Police man nodded to him as he walked by, though he saw no need to acknowledge them.

He reached the metal doors and was faced with Lestrade. His pale complexion told him everything he needed to know, "Horrific is it, Inspector?"

"I don't think we ever had so much blood from one body on display before," Lestrade's grim face turned even paler as he went on, "But that's not the worst thing Sherlock. I-I can't even explain what they've done. Just come and see, if you think you've got the stomach for it," with that, the inspector turned on his heel and led the consulting detective to the victim.

Blood. The first thing to capture Sherlock's attention was the blood. Someone had quite literally painted two of the walls in the victim's life fluid. And yet, the floor was spotless.

Before him was a dining table. About 20 feet long, it was made of a dark cherry wood as was laid with fine china for a tea party. Plates and cups, teapots and cutlery were placed haphazardly along the whole table. Sherlock noticed the chaotic layout of the crockery and realised that it was possibly too perfectly chaotic, too… deliberate.

The young detective was pulled from his thoughts when Lestrade called his name. He looked up to see the older man standing by a body. Sherlock walked over to join the inspector and got his first look at the victim. What a strange sight it was!

The body was sat upright in a high-backed chair, made of the same wood as the table. His face was painted and atop his head perched a dark brown top hat with pins, knitting needles, feathers and a piece of paper with an old-style money price written on it stuck in a pale red band. This man had been dressed up as the Mad Hatter. _What the fuck is going on?!_ Sherlock's mind was a-whirl with possibilities.

"So how did he die, other than blood loss?" Sherlock turned to face Lestrade whose face seemed to be getting both whiter and shinier by the moment.

"Well we don't know," Lestrade cleared his throat as if embarrassed, "we honestly don't."

"Oh come on Lestrade, Anderson isn't that bad at his job. Even you could find the wound!" Sherlock snorted with derision. _And they call themselves detectives._

"That's the problem Sherlock. There is no wound."

"…What?"

Lestrade's shoulders heaved as he sighed, "There is no wound Sherlock, there's nothing. No bruising of any kind, no foreign DNA traces and no knife, gun or needle wounds. There's no sign of the blood being removed, or of him even being _killed_. The only reason we know the blood's his because of DNA match-up and the only reason he's dead is because his heart's stopped."

Sherlock turned slowly on the spot to look back at the dead man. His skin was perfect, excepting the creepy make-up, "Well if there's nothing else, Inspector…"

"Actually there is, over here," Lestrade led Sherlock to the other side of the warehouse, "It's a message. Well, sort of," this wall wasn't painted in blood but a message had been written on it. In blood.

"_If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn't. And contrary wise, what is, it wouldn't be. And what it wouldn't be, it would. You see?_" Sherlock read the phrase aloud.

"Any ideas?" Lestrade queried, "Feel free to share, for once."

Sherlock turned to face the inspector, "It's a quote. From Lewis Carroll's _Alice in Wonderland_," and with that, the consulting detective left the crime scene without another word.

Lestrade watched him leave then turned back to the message, "A quote from a children's book?" But this wasn't all the bothered the inspector. What bothered him most was the confusion in Sherlock Holmes' eyes. And when Sherlock Holmes was bemused by something, well, they were all in trouble.

* * *

_**AN: First off, a great big thank you to everyone who favourite, followed and/or reviewed. It REALLY means a lot! Feel free to contact me by PM (as I'm awful at responding to reviews) if you have any queries, suggestions or would like a personal fanfic written about you (I do those too!). It doesn't have to be Sherlock, but I may have to turn it down or alter it if I don't know the fandom.  
Second, sorry for the slow updates, I'll warn you now, updates will be sporadic and may stop completely at times. I live in England and am in YR13, doing my A Levels which I need to pass to go to uni. Unfortunately, those have to take priority.  
Thirdly, I know this is chapter is shorter than the Prologue, but I will only include what needs to be in each chapter so they will vary in length.  
Finally, (sorry for being so long-winded) if you like Sherlock/OC fanfics, go read my friend's awesome story, **__We Shall All Burn Together__** by EleanorBlythe. She's amazing!**_


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